


All These Little Lights

by Hopetohell



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fisting, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Period Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Stream of Consciousness, Video Recording
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Mike. What do you want for Christmas?He pauses, then, looking up from the fairy lights he’s using to bind your wrists together, and says,You. Obviously.This is now a five senses Christmas Mike series.
Relationships: Mike (Hellraiser)/Reader
Kudos: 6





	1. All these Little Lights (sight)

_Mike. What do you want for Christmas?_

He pauses, then, looking up from the fairy lights he’s using to bind your wrists together, and says,

_You. Obviously._

And _oh,_ the little shining lights are cool on your skin but they cast long lines of color everywhere, shot through with shadows and making Mike above you seem like an angel, perhaps, or maybe a demon 

(No, not a demon. Not that. Not with the way he still wakes deep in the night, eyes wide and fathomless in the dark. Not with the way his skin still crawls with an underground chill)

— _an angel, Mike, but not the kind with wings and halos. The kind that falls, and in falling tracks a line of fire across the sky._

The sentiment makes him smile, doesn’t it, your prose purple as anything but he doesn’t care; the words don’t matter but the sound of you is all comfort. He’d crawl beneath your skin if he could; he’d pillow his head on your bones and let himself absorb into you like saline, like a phantom thought. But he can’t, so he’ll settle for this. 

_Mike. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it all the time. Please. Let me help you; let me ease your mind._

_I just. I need not to think about it for a while._

So here you are with his fine clever hands winding little lights around your wrists, around and around and then a loop to make a bow, its tails tied to the headboard. _Don’t move. God, I want to take a picture, can I? Can I just—_

And yeah, alright, _don’t make me regret this. Get the camera_ and there’s Mike biting his lip as he works through what you meant, as he’s rummaging for the camera and pressing record, running its vast dark eye up the length of your body as he’s gripping at the base of his cock. He’s so fucking excited at the thought of this moment permanently in his hands, where he can pluck it out and turn it over and over, examining from every angle the moment when you cracked and let him in. 

And there on the side table, the camera sees everything: it sees the curve of breast and hip, the soft press of Mike’s fingers over your flank. It sees warm light arguing with shadow, fighting for territory in the planes of Mike’s face, in the dark curls that fall into his eyes, in the roll of his hips as he holds your knee in the crook of his elbow. The camera sees you both and it captures this moment for always, but it can’t catch everything. 

It can’t quite hear the soft, strangled _ah_ when Mike slides at last into warmth and wetness. It does hear your gasping _fuck_ when he bottoms out, when he presses in as deep as he can and then begins to move. 

But for every gasp and moan and little shivering thrust it catches, the camera misses so much. It can’t possibly know how it feels when Mike reaches up to tangle his fingers with yours, light casting long shadows from the fine bones in his wrist; it can’t feel the warmth of him, the tiny squeeze of your hand to say _I’m here,_ or the answering press of his own hand that says _so am I._ And if it sees his panting openmouthed want as he moves above you, it doesn’t know how much it means, how much it costs him to let you see him wide-eyed and wondering, to let you see him vulnerable. 

_This is a gift,_ you tell him, and he laughs because he thinks you’re talking about the way he moves in you, the way every word is a half-gasp, bracketed by shuddering needy breaths. But he’ll turn this moment over and over later in his mind, rewinding the tape to see the way you look at him when you say it, soft and reverent. And then, at last, he’ll understand.


	2. Mint and chocolate (taste)

When he kisses you it’s all peppermint and chocolate, all candy-cane sweet, because that boy has a ferocious sweet tooth and 

_Mike. Get out of the chocolate chips I swear to god_

His canine catches on your lip and then it’s cocoa, it’s mint, it’s copper on your tongue and _Christ_ it’s heady. And _oh_ when he tastes it on you, there’s that little helpless whine, that _I remember,_ that has him drawing back and staring—whether in horror or in wonder, who can say. They look much the same on him: luminous, pale, eyes so big and he licks his lips— in lust. Gorgeous, gorgeous boy. 

_Take what you want, take everything you want. Only take it honestly._

_I want. I want to taste you._

And it’s hard, this time of year. Memories creep close to the surface and he sleeps even less than usual, circles deepening and darkening to bruises under his eyes

( _It’s a spa day, Mike, come on. They’ll wrap a hot towel around your head and massage your soul out of your body._ But it didn’t work, did it? He drifted til he woke from nightmares, from his body flying apart, hooks and chains and the horrified shriek of the spa attendant)

and he is tired, he is paler than he should be; when he gathers both your hands in one of his, there’s a fine tremor through his fingers. And when he licks into you it is desperate, isn’t it, chasing warmth and sweetness to drive out the grave-mold taste that lingers at the back of his throat. 

When he says _hold onto me and don’t let go_ it is both an order and a plea 

( _Say you’ll stay_ )

and so of course you grip, you grasp, you tangle your hands in his hair and open yourself to him. You give him your taste, your copper, your sweetness and softness and that little bit of coffee, and he gives you mint and chocolate, gives you fear and doubt and the little blue flame that licks at him always 

(The blue pilot light flickers in the dark depths of the furnace, until it ignites with a roar and a gasp, some sleeping beast awakened from its slumber)

And when you kiss through the sweetness of stolen chocolate, you find the wildness at his core: fear and joy and pain and the shards of a soul shattered and stuck back together with threads of gold. He flickers a little with each breath but is steadied by your hands in his hair, by the way you cleave to him like he asked,

(Begged, in every way but words)

by the way

( _By the way, I_ )

he rolls against you like a ship untethered in a storm, wild and wanton, losing himself in the taste of you, in the slide of his tongue against yours. And he is thrumming with it, this rising need. He is warm with the comfort of your skin, your hands, the words that hang like crystals in the air. 

( _By the way, I love you._ )


	3. Ice (part 3: sound)

The boughs of the great tree in the courtyard are breaking in cracks and pops, sharp like gunfire, like snapping bones. The ice falling on concrete would make little sounds like bright bells if you could hear it, but the glass is thick 

(Warped, settling slower than slow to the bottom of the pane, light diffusing through like it’s passing through water)

and all you hear is boughs breaking. Mike doesn’t care; this of all things doesn’t bother him because he has no context in which it’s anything other than a brief amusement, a pastime that started out with _what was that_ and ends with him here, wrapped in your quilt, watching branches break in the night. 

The ice is here; it’s everywhere, sealing shut your cars, slicking up your sidewalks, tearing down power lines and trees and anything else it finds. And Mike, who came over for a little fun, for a night not spent alone, is here and will remain here til the ice clears or for as long as he can manage not to leave. 

And with the power out, what else is there to do but build a fire, stacking logs in the fireplace and borrowing his lighter

( _Mike. I thought you quit._ ) 

while he gathers blankets and pillows and makes himself at home, burrowing naked in his nest, hearing soft cracks and pops as the logs catch fire, as the fire settles down to a soft orange glow

( _I did, it’s just, you know, in case._ )

and Mike is golden in the firelight when he lifts the blanket to let you in;

( _Let me in)_

__he shrieks and laughs at your icy fingers on his sides, his belly, trailing lower til his shriek cuts off on a gasping, raspy _fuck,_ til the blankets slide free so you can watch in wonder as he fills under your hand

( _Jesus, fuck, will you—_

_I will when I hear you beg for it, when you cry out sweet and sticky for me)_

and he takes it; he bears the sweet agony of _not quite enough_ because he craves that little edge of pain, because he needs that approving glow on your face, that _good boy, there you are._ He hums a little, holding steady, broken now and then by gasps that aren’t quite pleas, not yet, not til it’s far too much and you’ve just got to trust he knows his limits. 

_(Mike. Is that— White Christmas? Really?_

_Could, ah. Fuck, Jesus, fuck. Could be worse._ And he tries to sing something poppy, something rude, in that voice that used to be so clear but is now forever husked just a little from his screams, from the deep dark underground, and he gets as far as _all I want—_ before you grasp and twist and his words fall away with a yelp)

He holds on longer than you expect; he’s flushed from neck to knees and his cock is dark like a bruise before you hear it, sliding out amongst soft curses and epithets. 

_Please_. 

And that’s all you need; that’s all you ever need, just that single moment when the walls come down and it’s just Mike, without artifice, without any of his defenses, breathing thick and syrupy with need and want and _please please please, let me, let me come, I—_

_(Alright)_

_I need_

As you lower your mouth onto him, as you take him to the root, his hands drift through your hair, across your shoulders; his fingertips find where he disappears into you, anchoring himself, taking in the soft wet sounds of your mouth on him, tangling them in his own curses and pleas as he falls apart piece by piece in the firelight, to the popping sounds of punkwood in the fireplace and the crack and shatter of branches breaking outside. 

Mike comes with a gasping sob, quieter than you’d think, like it’s a secret. His breath slows and steadies bit by bit, and when he’s calm again he starts to hum.


	4. Blood and Violet (part 4: smell)

Listen. Listen. Open for me. Open for me. Mike. Baby. Baby boy. Let it go, let me help you let it go. Put your arms up, Mike, open yourself, spread your arms wide and let the light catch golden at your skin. Let me see the scars from the last time we did this. 

It wouldn’t have scarred, but you picked and picked and picked at the scabs, sharp copper seeping into your nostrils. You didn’t want to lose the thread, did you, love? You didn’t want to see your talisman fade. Maybe, maybe, if you kept it fresh. Maybe. 

_It didn’t work and now you’re here._

I know, sweet, I know. The pipes groan and spew sulfurous water but at least it’s warm. It’s a little bit of a brimstone scent and it reminds you of home

( _Home is where you hang your—_ )

and Mike, Mike, look. I know I said I would, but what about this? I’ll put you in the bath, warm and wet; I’ll wash your hair with that violet shampoo you always complain about 

_Caught you trying to pull your own curls around to your nose, breathing deep. Smells like me, doesn’t it?_

and I’ll wash the metallic stinking fear from your flesh; I’ll make you clean and new and I will anoint you with oils because, Mike. Hey. Listen. _Listen._ You have passed through fire and pain and come out of it a holy thing; you stand in the snow in your stocking feet and look up with bright and empty eyes

_Don’t you know they’re coming? There’s that smell again, like the dark mud at the foot of the railroad bridge; and when you were ten (you were twenty, don’t lie, you both were old enough to know better. He bent and took it on his fingers, rotted roots and mud and cigarette butts, and tasted it because you said he should) you dared Adam to eat it and he did. How sick he was._

and when you tell me _night is here_ you mean more than just the time of day. You are a messenger, Mike, _their_ messenger, bringing fearful tidings and Mike, babe, beautiful spiraling fucked-up Mike, I want to drive the hook from your chest with little carved whorls and sigils; I don’t mind the blood and I know how you crave it. Mike, I’m bleeding too, did you know? We can bleed _together,_ til you and I can’t tell whose is whose, and we will writhe together in coppery filth. You look like an angel, gorgeous; I could cast you in porcelain and set you atop my tree but that would be another lie. Perhaps you were an angel but you’ve been driven to the earth, all scorched feathers and scratches and Mike, my god, put your hands on my hips and help me ride you. 

Mike, it’s snowing. Lie down here warm and pink, fresh from the tub, and let me sit astride you, let me rock my wet cunt against your steaming warm flesh; I would have you inside me. I will burn with you, gorgeous, as you lie on the window seat with your hand on the glass; we will watch the snow fall through the negative image of your hand, surrounded by condensation. We will see colored lights glowing on the snow outside; you will say _it’s beautiful_ but your eyes will be elsewhere. 

And I will reach to kiss you with your hands trembling on my hips; I will curve my spine and breathe you in, all violet and musk and blood, heady and intoxicating. And, Mike, the snow will fall. And we will breathe, we will breathe, we will breathe.


	5. It’s a Stretch (part 5: touch)

And when he says he wants to put his fist in you it’s over a candlelit dinner, all soft light and romance and little sprigs of holly on the tablecloth and sure, okay, yeah. _Yeah, we can do that._ Just, you know, it’s gonna take a little work. It’s gonna take— _Mike, oh Jesus, I liked those plates, I. Fuck. Oh fuck, do that again— it’s gonna take all night. You up for it, Mike?_

Of course he’s fucking up for it. He’s thought about it, he surely has; he loves to finger you almost as much as he loves to fuck you

(Maybe even more so; maybe he craves the feel of you warm and slick around his fingers, the soft wet ripple as he he draws orgasm sweetly from you)

because it’s a gift, isn’t it; it’s something all for you. It’s him making you feel good because he wants to see you fall apart when his eyes are clear. It’s him baring you to the waist, lifting you onto the table in a clatter of silverware. And it’s him with that stubborn light in his eyes, that persistence that’s pulled him through, pulled him past everything, past pain and deep wet earth and the press and stab of

 _Don’t think about that._ Don’t think about the way he told you, haltingly, over the sort of dissolute late-night strangeness you shared back then, over his breath rising white from beneath his hood. _It’s been a year. I know. Please._

_It isn’t— wasn’t— right._

_I know. I know. Please, just lose yourself in me,_ and Jesus, fuck, that’s it. _Get your mouth on me_ as he’s taking you with his fingers just a little faster than you’d like, but his mouth is sweet on you as well and it bleeds the edge off, just a bit. Just enough. 

( _Mike. What do you wanna be when you grow up?_ He’s languid, a little less than sober, celebrating winter recess on the rooftop, blanket around his shoulders while you lean against him in the night. 

_Don’t laugh. Promise?_

_Yeah._

_A nurse, I think. You know, the one who lays the babies on their mothers’ chests._ A sigh, then, billowing white; through his frozen breath you see a lonely plane blinking overhead.)

He’s up to three fingers when he pulls the first orgasm from you, rolling steady past the press and stroke of his fingers, a river running over tumbled stone until it 

_snaps_

with the frost; until it crystallizes into one shocking bright moment that, somehow, you didn’t see coming. 

_Shut it, Mike. I can hear the joke behind your teeth._

Hell, he didn’t see it coming either; there’s a dark patch blooming on his jeans. He’s pink-cheeked and panting, kicking off his clothes to get out from under stickiness but he also isn’t stopping. His hand’s trembling a little as he pulls himself back together: it’s a fine vibration, a hum; blood and nerve and bone work together to guide you along the path his hand is laying out. And his hand— that fine, clever, long-fingered hand, with the curved scar under his thumb— that hand is shining wet with spit and liquid need, and he spares a moment to press his fingers into your mouth

_taste it, what I’ve done to you_

and let you lap your own fluids from his fingers; it’s vulgar and filthy and you’d swear you could nearly come again just from the heat in his eyes. But he’s folding his four fingers into an arrow; he’s returning them into you, pressing slow and steady. It’s gentle, so gentle; you could cry with the care of it, with how his brow furrows in concentration. And it’s not a cry, not quite, but it’s a soft wet _ah_ that falls from your lips when he begins to move again, his hand inside you and his tongue back on you, tasting the seam where his fingers disappear inside.

 _Fuck, you’re so wet for me_ and he’s still somehow bleeding that wondering innocence into everything he does, even after all that’s happened. _You’d give me anything I wanted, and all I want for Christmas is—_

and if you’d thought to castigate him for the reference, it’s a lost cause because your mind is derailed by his hand withdrawing, folding, pressing in again slow and certain til the bones of his wrist fetch up against your folds. It’s so much, almost too much; it’s like being pinned and pulled apart at once, and you could scream with it. You _do_ scream when he curls his hand inside you, when the pads of his fingers stroke your walls as he makes his hand into a fist. 

And Mike, with his angel’s face and mouth like sin— Mike reaches with his other hand to grasp your wrist, to bring your fingers down and make you touch where he disappears inside you. His fist is barely moving, but every minute shift is on the verge of being too much— and Mike flexes his hand. It all comes crashing down at once; he sends you out of your body and straight into a scream as you clamp down around him, as he pulls his hand free to tangle your fingers with his and press them into shining transcendent heat. 

And Mike, sweet sad Mike who comes here hoping for distraction, grins as he bends to kiss you full of your own taste. It’s a little bit brittle still, but his posture softens moment by moment even as his cock is twitching and filling against your leg and 

_Let’s take this to the bedroom, yeah? I want you to fuck me til I can’t stand up. I want you to find me still stretched open from your hand, still trying to close around it, and I want you to get inside me sloppy and squelching, fingertips beside your cock inside me. Mike, come on, come on, let’s—_

_—yeah.  
_


End file.
